Bitter On My Lips

The cigarette lingered bitter on my lips,
but it wasn’t the smoke I craved—
it was the memory of him,
hidden in that fleeting, indirect kiss.

The night bent low around me,
ash falling like tired stars,
and every inhale felt borrowed,
like I was stealing pieces of a ghost.

His shadow curled in the back of my throat,
warm and sharp all at once,
a taste that refused to fade,
a silence that knew my name.

I lit another flame,
not for the comfort of fire,
but for the illusion of his breath—
the way it once tangled with mine,
soft, unhurried,
as if we had forever.

Now the smoke drifts upward,
thin, dissolving,
just like the shape of us.
And still I press my mouth to the ember,
searching for him in the burn,
hoping memory might kiss me back.

Onnaya